The Boy Who Lived Wished He Hadn't
by Leafy Slur
Summary: The truth was hidden when Harry's parents died. Now it's starting to come out, and it's dark. Harry is suddenly witty, vulgur, and scared. He's changing and he can't fight it.
1. Chapter 1: A Wide Awake Nightmare

The boy who lived wished he hadn't. Work in progress. I own nothing. Suggestions welcome!

* * *

Voldemort left more than just a pretty-little, conveniently-symbolic, lightning-shaped scar on the infant Harry Potter's forehead. But that's what everyone sees, because that's the pretty little story Rita Skeeter spun up for the Daily Prophet to make her daily profit.

No, even though Voldemort's curse backfired, Harry still suffered third-degree burns over the majority of his one-year-old body, as though he were the target of an _Incendio_ spell. Of course, those burns never manifested info lifelong scars because someone unbeknownst to Harry saved the tot with an incantation of _Vulnera Sanentur_. But they somehow missed, perhaps intentionally, the bolt-shaped scar on the right side of his forehead.

When news spread of how Voldemort had inadvertently destroyed his own body, multitudes of witches and wizards secretly held their glasses up to "The Boy Who Lived", mistakenly thinking that young Harry had escaped with nothing but a trifling scar. No one realized just how much of the Dark Lord's soul had truly been embedded in Harry's body. Even Harry himself grew up unaware of how badly his body had been scorched before he was mysteriously saved.

* * *

"The boy has a sharper wit than I imagined," Dumbledore mused, "But I don't quite see the problem, Severus."

Snape replied, "You do understand why detention was an appropriate action to take with Mr. Potter, don't you?"

"Harry was merely requesting you to teach him about a potion he had a particular interest in," responded the elderly Headmaster.

Snape whipped his hair from his face irritably and muttered with increasing annoyance, "First of all, I am no longer the Potions master. Secondly, he asked me if I knew how to brew Skele-Gro so I could finally grow myself a bone down there!"

Dumbledore chuckled good-naturedly. He began, "Severus, I understand Harry has a bit of a rebel streak—"

"A rebel streak?" Snape interrupted, "Excuse me, Professor, but he's got a dark streak." The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher gave a resigned sigh. "There's something cold about Potter that I don't understand, and that's precisely what scares me."

"Colder than James?" Dumbledore inquired, "The James who quite ruthlessly bullied and tormented you?"

Snape answered instantly, "Absolutely. James was, no doubt, immature and had a penchant for harassing me. But it was never out of malice. I always felt that I understood him. It was merely circumstance and personality that made it so we could never be friends."

Snape ran his hand along the Headmaster's claw-footed desk. He continued, "I know you see good in Potter. I know how close he has grown to you with those private classes of yours. And I know you see limitless potential in him. That alarms me, and believe me when I say that I will keep a close watch on him. But, Professor, you have Potter's trust, and you teach him so much. You help him realize what he could become to the wizarding world. Tom Riddle would not be Voldemort if Horace Slughorn had simply kept silent about horcruxes. What Horace thought was mere curiosity about the Dark Arts was actually an insidious obsession with immortality and power that brought us all to where we are today. He made a mistake that cannot be measured." Snape grew flustered, "Look, Professor, what I'm trying to say is that you need to be careful. The boy is smarter than you know."

"Point taken." Dumbledore replied as he looked up at Snape with concerned eyes. "It's getting late, Severus. You need rest."

Snape swiftly exited the office, his feet pounding down the circular stone staircase. At that very same moment, something was pounding loudly in Harry's head.

* * *

Rarely did Harry sleep well these days, and tonight was no exception. Even his nights back at Privet Drive were more peaceful.

Tonight, Harry appeared to be in a wrestling match with his comforter. Hands clutching the cloth tightly, Harry's arms jerked closer to his chest. His body spasms amplified as his face clenched in chaotic concentration. And suddenly, the comforter won, as Harry lay motionless, pinned underneath the sweat-stained blanked.

In his nightmare, however, Harry was chasing Hermione, running in the left corridor on the seventh floor. She was screaming and clawing at the wall where the Room of Requirement should appear, but it remained a wall as Harry caught up with her. She turned around and backed up against it, pleading for mercy.

"No, Harry, please…Harry, no!"

Hermione pointed her wand at Harry. Before she could utter a single word, Harry felt himself clutch Hermione's throat, ceasing her piercing screams. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop his hands from wringing the life out of his friend. Even after Hermione fell silent, Harry could not loosen his grasp. He struggled with all his might, trying to relax his grip. His hands would not let go of Hermione's increasingly pallid skin. Horrified at what he had done, Harry continued to fight unsuccessfully against his own strength. He could see out of his own eyes, but the rest of his body felt possessed—as though under the Imperius curse. He wasn't strong enough to resist it. He couldn't even open his mouth to protest.

"Mmhmphf…"

Finally, Harry broke out of his dream. He creaked open his eyes into slits and pushed the covers off of his over-heated body. It was an uncomfortably familiar feeling. Ever since his sixth year began at Hogwarts, Harry had been having regular nightmares with an eerily similar theme. Each time, he saw himself—no, he experienced himself—doing terrible things and committing horrible acts, but could never control his own body.

Harry rubbed a bit of crust off of his left eye as he turned away from the wall. He felt himself losing control. Before this year, Harry was no stranger to nightmares. He knew Voldemort's mind was somehow connected to his. Although he failed to learn Occlumency from Snape last year, he did not fear the Dark Lord's influence on his mind. Harry knew how to use his human essence to his advantage by focusing on his feelings of love and grief. He thought about his family, he felt the aching and longing. Voldemort was too far from human to fully grasp these emotions, and the connection between their minds was blocked.

So, if these dreams were not the product of Voldemort's influence, then where did they come from? Anywhere and anyone, really. Harry cursed his mysterious life—a mystery to even himself.

He learned more and more about himself all the time, and it definitely wasn't an easy road of discovery. This year, he had suddenly developed a more devious side, spurting out wisecracking and vulgar comments before he even thought them. It didn't feel like himself, and it had already landed him a detention with Snape. On the other hand, this newfound mischievous personality made him quite popular and gave him a reputation as a joker, so Harry didn't mind it much. The dreams, however, were another story.

Harry had kept all of his nightmares a secret, afraid that he would unnecessarily alarm Ron or Hermione. But now, he began to question that decision. This was the first time he had dreamed of murder.


	2. Chapter 2: The Secrets, Reopened

Harry brushed the thought out of his mind, just as he brushed the hair from his moist forehead. Lacking the energy to care, he decided that he didn't have the time to dissect his nightmares for meaning. Instead, he strangely decided that the best use of his time before breakfast would be to study for his Potions class.

Reaching underneath his bed, Harry felt around for an old, timeworn book. He picked up his copy of _Advanced Potion Making_ and nestled it on top of his legs as he leaned against his headboard. He had a date with the Half-Blood Prince.

Harry felt a fondness for this book that he'd never felt for any other learning aid in his time at Hogwarts, simply because the Half-Blood Prince gave him shortcuts and creative answers to all the problems and challenges he didn't want to be bothered with. The nearly illegible notes scribbled in the margins of the text helped Harry become Horace Slughorn's star student in Potions. But it wasn't just because the Half-Blood Prince's ingenuity complemented Harry's laziness perfectly.

The Half-Blood Prince had a surprising effect on Harry. He used to loathe Potions—partly due to the fact that Snape taught it and always had it out for Harry—but also because it seemed so dry. You follow a set of instructions as best you can, and still manage to screw up royally somehow. But the Half-Blood Prince opened Harry's eyes to how nuanced the art of Potions could truly be. There were so many ways to arrive at a solution, so many better, faster ways than they were taught.

As Harry contemplated the complex nature of potion brewing methods, he also thought about how powerful certain potions could be. How many times in the past had someone brewed him a potion that helped him achieve something he previously thought was impossible? Harry could hardly count. But it was always someone smarter than him, someone who possessed more potions knowledge than him, who enabled him to achieve his ends. If he gained enough knowledge about potions from the Half-Blood Prince, Harry thought, then he could skip the middleman. Leaning back on his cushy pillow, Harry thought of the possibilities.

He could sneak some Amortentia into Malfoy's butterbeer and make the blonde nightmare fall madly in love with him. Oh yes, Harry liked this one. Malfoy would follow him around, desperately flirting with him, while Harry would use every opportunity he could to humiliate the Slytherin. What would he do? Hmm, let's see. Malfoy would beg, "Harry! My wand is at the ready for you." Harry laughed aloud as he pictured Malfoy trying to seduce him. Malfoy would plead, "The Boy Who Lived should be The Boy Who Loved." It would be pure gold. He would make sure everybody saw how Malfoy melted at his feet, as he strung Malfoy along like the lovesick goon he would be.

Harry then thought about brewing a Developing Solution to make his own magical photographs. Yes, he would take a picture of his bottom passing a large amount of gas and hang it in Malfoy's bedroom for him to admire every evening before he fell asleep. His mind jumped from possibility to possibility.

Harry could brew his own Memory Potion and finally get Outstanding marks on his O.W.L.s.

He could brew Vitamix Potions, sell it to muggles as energy drinks, and make a ridiculous fortune.

He could make his own Regeneration Potion in case he decided to make a horcrux.

Harry shook his head. What was a horcrux, anyway? Confused at his own thought, Harry rubbed his scar unintentionally. Before he could even grapple with this question, the door burst open and a tall freckled redhead erupted from the entryway.

"Harry!" Ron cried, "Did you hear about what happened to Moaning Myrtle?"

Harry replied with a grin, "She was just Myrtle before I came along."

Ron's eyes widened in surprise as he snickered, "Good one, Harry."

But he quickly suppressed his laughter with a grim expression. He explained, "I don't know what happened but everybody's gone mad about it! Hermione says she was in the first-floor girl's bathroom and she noticed it was awfully quiet, and that's when she went to look for Moaning Myrtle, but she wasn't hanging around like she usually does. Nobody knows where she went! The whole school's gone mad."

Harry wrinkled his forehead. "That's strange," he began.

Ron continued, "I mean, I personally don't mind her not being around. She's never been pleasant to me. In fact, she's always been a real nightmare. Every time we see her, she completely ignores me and tries to cozy up to you. It's not fair. She stares daggers into my face, but undresses you with her eyes. I honestly don't know who she thinks she—"

"Ron," Harry interrupted, "I get it. Myrtle's not our best friend. But if she's missing, that's not a good sign. Strange, scary things have never been a good sign at Hogwarts. Especially now, when everything is more dangerous than ever. We both know Voldemort's gaining power, and ever since Sirius died…" For a moment, Harry's voice wavered, and then he grew silent.

Sensing his friend slipping away into despondent thoughts, Ron gently reminded Harry, "Your point is that we've got to do something to help, right?"

Remembering himself, Harry nodded.

Ron continued, "I don't exactly know how, but whenever there's a big problem, somehow we are the answer to it." He smiled, "Okay fine, you are the answer to it. I'm just here for moral support."

A worried expression slowly spread across Harry's face as a thought formed in his mind. He suddenly whispered, "I think I know where to start looking, but I sure as hell hope that I'm wrong."

* * *

Snape looked fitting in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. The room wore the same gloomy expression as the former Potions master. His sallow face matched the washed-out look of the walls. The dusty old curtains parted over the stained windows just as the curtains of greasy black hair parted over Snape's forehead.

The students filed in, not speaking a word. This was partially because they were scared of Snape, but also because they were bemused at the classroom's appearance. Most of them were looking around with curious eyes at the strangely decorated room. It reeked of darkness, from the gruesome paintings to the heavy air to the poor lighting. At the front of the room hung paintings of witches and wizards who had obviously been on the receiving end of Dark Arts magic. Some had mangled bodies. Some had grotesquely disfigured faces. But the strangest painting hung on the left wall, away from the windows, so high that it was almost bordering the ceiling. It depicted a man who appeared, at first glance, to have no eyes. But if you were to look closer, you could see that his eyes were so empty, so soulless, and so devoid of life that they may as well have not been there at all. Every muscle in his face was either completely relaxed or simply missing. It was impossible to tell. Hermione shuddered, as she looked away from this particularly unsettling painting.

She took a seat near the front of the class, so as not to miss a single detail during the lecture. As Snape made his way around the room, he looked at her face for half a second longer than anyone else's. Hermione smiled, as Snape every so slightly recoiled and narrowed his eyes. He kept walking and finally parked himself at the front of the room, with every student's eyes locked upon his face.

He waited until the dust that was disturbed by the students entering the room had finally settled. "The Dark Arts," Snape began, "are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them—"

Hermione's hand sliced through the air.

"What a surprise," Snape mused in response, "Yes? What is it Ms. Granger? Has my lecture already confounded you?"

Clearing her throat, Hermione straightened her posture and explained, "No, Professor."

"Well then, it can wait until—" Snape clenched his jaw in annoyance as he was interrupted yet again.

"Well, I'm not sure if you've heard, Professor," interjected Hermione, "but Moaning Myrtle is missing from her usual post in the first-floor girl's bathroom. No one knows where she is, but everybody's certain it's got something to do with the Dark Arts."

Snape of course was already aware of the situation developing, but did not want to delve into it with his students. He himself did not know where the ghost had ended up, and tried his best to appear unafraid and blasé. He raised an eyebrow and asked, "Did you have a question in there?"

"Oh yes, of course," Hermione replied, "I was just hoping you could offer an explanation, or at least give us your best guess as to what could have transpired."

"Well, first," Snape began, "A ghost missing from its usual location is not necessarily a cause for alarm. Second, I would need to know more in order to—"

Sensing the absence of a familiar and annoying presence, Snape paused. His eyes scoured the room for two empty seats. Of course, they were at the back of the room.

"Second," he repeated, "Who can tell me which of their classmates decided today that their time was too valuable to waste on learning about the Dark Arts?"

Draco Malfoy eagerly volunteered, "Potter and Weasley."

Honing in on Hermione's face, Snape asked, "And who can tell me exactly where those missing classmates are?"

Again, Malfoy eagerly responded, "Probably snogging in the girls bathroom where they belong." A couple of Slytherins snickered, but Snape was not amused. He ignored that comment and continued to stare daggers into Hermione's tousled hair. Lately, he felt something had changed about Harry, and he couldn't really understand it. Anything out of place was reason for alarm in his mind, but he kept his cool in front of his class.

The students grew silent.

"Where's Potter?" Snape demanded.

But no one knew.

* * *

"You're sure about this, Harry?" Ron asked hesitantly.

Harry responded with a sigh, "Unfortunately, yes."

The pair made their way to the only sink tap with a snake engraving. Harry traced his thumb along the carved snake's body in a rather fond manner. A sudden electric sensation made his body shudder. He turned quickly and straightened his back, hoping Ron hadn't noticed anything. Lucky for him, Ron was busy studying his feet and seemed to be trying to make fire by vigorously rubbing his palms.

"Are you ready?" Harry asked.

Ron stopped what he was doing. He simply shrugged. "We'll see."

Harry returned his attention to the snake-engraved sink. Turning his hips to stand squarely in front of it, he whispered loudly and deliberately, "_Saiyah hesha hassah_."

The entire bathroom trembled as the stone material of the sink taps started to shift. A gaping hole emerged and the room turned three shades darker. Instead of sunlight illuminating the passage, it appeared to be sucking the light out of the room. Finally, all movement ceased. The Chamber of Secrets had been reopened.

Ron's feet were glued to the floor. His face looked even paler than usual in contrast with his fiery red hair. His freckles were pronounced stain upon the snowy white hue of his skin. "After you," He motioned to Harry to lead the way.

Harry crept into the corridor. It was dusty with disuse. He heard echoes of each step he and Ron took. They kept walking until the strangely familiar sight of a dimly lit chamber materialized in front of their eyes. Framing the chamber from the sides, towering stone pillars of serpents rose up to an unending darkness. There was something—so many things—unnerving about this place. Even their own skin looked green in the eerie gloom of the chamber.

A wave of nostalgia hit Harry as he relived the last time he stood in this very same place. It evoked his memories of stabbing Tom Riddle's diary with a basilisk fang. He remembered killing the basilisk with the sword of Godric Gryffindor. He remembered being saved by phoenix tears. But most of all, he remembered Ginny Weasley's pale, limp, and lifeless body. This memory felt so real to Harry, that he almost thought he still saw the outline of a girl at the far end of the chamber, right below the statue of Salazar Slytherin.

He strained his eyes as he felt his feet carry him swiftly forward. He still saw the silhouette of someone lying on the floor.

"Ron!" He shouted with increasing urgency, "Ron!"

It was a girl, but it wasn't Ginny.

Harry hurried to the figure he saw. From up close, his eyes could finally make out he outline of a ghost. The pale blue ethereal form was unmistakably inhuman. Finally Ron caught up to Harry. He gasped at the sight and shook his head, "You were right, Harry."

The pair kneeled next to Myrtle's already lifeless body. Harry tried to reach out and touch Myrtle, but his hand fell right through her body. The icy wind he usually felt when ghosts passed through him was drowned out by the numbness of his mind. He stammered, "I don't understand…she's…she's a ghost. How can she die again?"

Ron thought for a moment, and then he suddenly stood up. Looking down at Harry with a curious expression, he demanded to know, "What made you think she would be here…in the Chamber of Secrets? This place hasn't been opened since…well, Ginny."

Harry searched his mind for a clue, any explanation that he could cling to. But there was none. He sensed that Ron was growing strangely fearful of him, and Harry began to fear himself as well. Looking up at Ron's face, Harry wore a rather blank expression. He confided, "I honestly don't know. The thought just came to me when you first told me about what happened to Myrtle."

Ron looked away in disbelief. Harry pleaded to his friend, "Look, Ron, I'm really not trying to freak you out. I don't know why I knew Myrtle was here, but that isn't what's important right now, is it? We've got to tell the professors that we found her here, and then maybe, just maybe, we can figure out what happened to her."

Ron continued to stare ahead, as though Harry's words had no meaning. Frustrated, Harry stood up and shook Ron by the shoulders. He lined his eyes up with Ron's eyes, trying to make them meet, but Ron seemed to stare right through him.

"What is it, Ron?" Harry demanded.

Ron slowly lifted his right arm and pointed a trembling finger ahead. Harry held his breath. He turned his body to face the same way as Ron.

At the end of the chamber, on the wall next to the statue, he spotted what had captivated Ron's attention.

Someone had written in a dark purplish liquid: "In her dreams, she moves beyond the veil. In his mission, he shall not fail."


End file.
